Ingo Schulze - New Lives

I dozed on the bed till seven, and had no idea how I would play it. I was convinced that I wouldn’t be successful again if I followed the same method. All the same, after a shower I put on the same outfit as the evening before, even the same socks. Vera, on the other hand, looked more elegant than ever — she had a new hairdo too. Neither she nor I had thought of a dinner reservation.

After being turned away at the Louis XV, I suggested we eat in the casino. Vera shook her head in revulsion. The front desk implied there was some hope of getting us into the Grill’s Churchill Room.

Bonsoir, bonsoir, bonsoir, bonsoir. We strode past the phalanx of waiters again, crossed the huge dining room, and in the end had a pick of any table in the empty Churchill Room. I didn’t understand why the waiters apologized for putting us there. To me it seemed more of an honor. Only after we sat down did I notice the large photograph of Churchill. His gaze was directed straight at me.

We recognized half the waiters, the stool for Vera’s purse was put in place, my menu was in English.

(With a heavy heart I’ve been forced to vacate the balcony and the room. Now I’m sitting over tea and zwieback in the hotel café, an insufferable piano plinking in the background. At least there’s not someone constantly taking your picture here.)

We went right into the routine, immediately chose our bread (olive), knew which butter was salted. I quickly selected a red wine; by now three hundred francs seemed a bargain. The waiter who had taken our order personally supervised the serving of the first course. And not just that. As if the cream in the middle of my empty soup bowl were the entire appetizer he wished us “Bon appétit!” hesitated mischievously, and only then elegantly poured the mushroom soup around the cream.

I tasted Vera’s risotto — and for a few minutes I didn’t think about the casino. The next transitional course was on the house. By then I was full.

Where had these knots in my stomach come from? During the entrée I concentrated on the fish, but just picked at it and left the rest untouched. The cheese cart wasn’t even allowed to approach us. This was followed — once again on the house and with the compliments of the chef — by filled crepes.

I was feeling sick to my stomach. I chose a calvados from the liqueur cart. It went down gently, gradually started to burn — and my nausea exploded. Our chief waiter helped me double-time it through the restaurant — don’t look at the tables! — to the restroom. I went to my knees before the toilet bowl and gagged a few times. In the corner lay some scraps of packaging, from a shirt maybe. I overcame my resistance, and stuck a finger down my throat. All I managed was a harmless belch.

My crepes had been sent back to the kitchen to be kept warm. Their return marked the return of my nausea. The waiters didn’t catch up with us until just before we reached the elevator — with my change on a silver tray.

Back in the room I turned on the television, locked all the doors, and planted myself on the toilet, hanging my head over the bidet. Twenty minutes later, mission unaccomplished, I crept into bed.

Shortly before one, Vera was forced to watch me dress again. As I stepped into my shoes, I broke out in a sweat. Vera retied my bow tie for me, spat three times over my left shoulder, and sent me on my way.

I exchanged six thousand francs, showed my gold card, and proceeded to Table 7, where the freckled, still unshaven gentleman was sitting at the corner, staring at his notebook, and calculating, head atilt.

The other players were standing. But I needed a chair.

Propping my elbows on the ledge, I was just about to stack my jetons when my gaze drifted across the table — for a moment I had to close my eyes. The sign above the croupier’s head still announced a minimum bet of fifty francs. But what was being raked in at that moment were two greenish white candy bars, each worth a hundred thousand, two violets at fifty thousand apiece, and countless Lipizzaners. My nausea was all that prevented me from bursting into laughter. Why had I let my fears torment me all day?

Totally liberated, I now began to play, working both my third plus red and odds, and smoking — although the dryness in my mouth told me my stomach wasn’t going to permit me all the time in the world. I employed my oranges only in little towers, and wasn’t niggardly with my blue thousands either. When I won, the jetons were too big to be distributed as gratuities. I ignored the zero entirely.

The combination of concentration and nausea apparently predestined me for an exegesis of the board. I was soon moving to the rhythm that concealed a world hung in the balance. A pink five hundred on the lower third — I won. That third had been neglected so long that the ball was not going to move elsewhere right away. I stayed with it — and won. And now enough energy had collected for a bounce that hurdled the middle third, and so back up top — I won. I smiled because any child would know what must come now. A pink on the middle third — and of course I won.

Side bets lost on red, odds, and passe reduced my winnings, but not my confidence. One pink on the upper third, and I owned another blue. By the next round I had doubled my six thousand francs — but that didn’t phase me much. I now wanted twelve thousand!

Believe me, my friend, in the same moment that the thought crossed my mind, I realized my mistake. I knew that the wish would be my downfall. But I went on playing.

I lost a pink on the middle third twice in a row. My nausea was now tinged with a sadness unlike any I’d ever known — sadness in expectation of my next win. And I did win, and once again had as much as I had had three spins before.

Nevertheless I let my pink chip lie — I could come up with nothing more clever. Suddenly a light went on: blue on red — and against my better judgment I held back. It landed on black and the first third.

No sadness now. I was in any case still four thousand to the good. No reason to be down in the dumps. I remained faithful to pink on the middle third. Or should I risk a blue? But I held back again — and lost.

I no longer felt anything, except the need to throw up. I had lost all my pinks, reached for a blue — and lost.

Something inside me rose up in protest at this injustice — blind rage! I wanted my blue back. It belonged to me. All I had to do was make a grab for the jetons and run!

I was sure I was going to have to vomit under the table any moment. But first there was something I had to do — an act of self-respect, the restoration of my honor.

Six blues in my breast pocket. The board showed the following sequence: red, black, black, red, black, black, red, black, black — everything on red? Six blues between my fingertips. I had to do it, I demanded it of myself. I was not going to be a pussyfooter.

The ball rolled — no! Not on red, not on odds, not on passe —stay with the second third! I was the only one to build my little blue tower there.

As the cry of “Rien ne va plus!” descended over the table like a bell jar, I glanced at the ceiling for the first time, and in the far corner saw a three-foot-high mural, Le matin. What did le matin mean? My eyes wandered to the right, across the empty tables in the restaurant and out into the darkness. Don’t think of victory, I admonished myself, resign yourself, you did the right thing.

There were several clicks, the ball bounced — I looked down, in the next moment came the announcement. I didn’t understand the croupier, but I saw it, the thirteen, I looked at it again, and then again, thirteen. Which third was the thirteen in? Thirty-six divided by three, twelve, twelve, twelve. I didn’t shout. On the contrary — as if I’d been standing the whole time, I felt as if I had finally sat down.